There rests a shadow of dejection over all he wrote and thought and acted.

Yet he was finely sensitive to pleasure, thrillingly alive to sentimental beauty.[79] Though the man lived purely, untainted by the license of the age, his genius soared highest when he sang some soft luxurious strain of love.
He was wholly deficient in humor.

Taking himself and the world of men and things too much in earnest, he weighed heavily alike on art and life.

The smallest trifles, if they touched him, seemed to him important.[80] Before imaginary terrors he shook like an aspen.

The slightest provocation roused his momentary resentment.